


Mountain Top

by enemyfrigate



Series: Waypoints [4]
Category: Justified
Genre: Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Closeted Character, Drinking, Internalized Homophobia, Loneliness, M/M, Mention of Drug Abuse, Raylan being supportive, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:17:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enemyfrigate/pseuds/enemyfrigate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, the whole anonymous blowjob thing is getting boring.  He doesn’t know what that means. Getting off is getting off. That’s always been enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mountain Top

Tim has never before been so distracted with a cock in his mouth. His own cock is still damp from the stranger’s mouth and Tim’s always fair, so he’ll treat him right. But he’s thinking more about going home to his book and the last microbrew than making this guy come. Luckily, Tim’s a damn good cocksucker and he can bring a man off without much thinking about it. Which he does, and he’s nearly surprised when his pick-up pulls out of his mouth to splash come over the cinder block wall.

“Thanks, man.” The guy does up his zipper and button.

Tim brushes off his knees, nods. “Yeah, sure.” The thump of something forgettable and popular bleeds through the walls of the back room. Tim raises a hand, a good bye, a dismissal, and slips through the curtain separating the back room from the bar.  He pushes through the small crowd around the bar and edging the dance floor on the way to the door.  Part of him would like to linger, have a beer, a conversation instead of a proposition, to maybe feel like he belongs, but he keeps true for the door. A place like this is no place for a man who wants to keep this secret.

He finds the SUV a few blocks down and beeps himself inside.  There might be pizza left in the fridge, couple days old, but still okay. He should probably stop after work tomorrow and buy some bread and peanut butter and such. Or some eggs. Those can be eaten anytime.

Tim finds a spot down the street from the townhouse.  He gets out, pats his coat for cigarettes he doesn’t turn out to have, and turns for what passes for home these days.

Wilson is sprawled on the battered sofa in the living room in front of Mendoza’s big screen watching Sponge Bob.

“Hey,” Tim says.

“Guts.” Wilson reaches for a Bud Ice on the table, next to an empty pizza box.

So much for that plan. Tim heads into the kitchen and finds little more on his shelf in the fridge than a couple of string cheeses. That’ll do. He snags his last Stone Horse IPA and heads upstairs, looking forward the down time with his book more than he had to going out to tonight.

Since Raylan had joined the office, Tim’s been spending two or three nights a week out at the bars. The thing is, the whole anonymous blowjob thing is getting boring.  He doesn’t know what that means. Getting off is getting off. That’s always been enough.

Tim shoves the door of his room open and navigates by the light of the fish tank. With a clink, he sets the beer down on the bedside table and drops the string cheese next to it. Goes over to half-height bookshelf to say hello to Bubba. The betta fish comes to the top of the tank, swimming back and forth in what looks like excitement, when Tim comes over. Tim drops a few pellets into the tank and Bubba sucks them down. The lease only allows him a ten gallon aquarium, not the 55 or even 90 gallon tank he wants, but Bubba always seems happy to see Tim, at least. That counts for something.

His shed clothes go in the hamper, his Marshal Service issued cell phone goes on the charger, and he throws himself on the bed, in just boxers and undershirt. He pops the top off the beer with the bottle opener on his keys and peels the plastic back on the first string cheese. Then he grabs his book from the bedside table and settles back on his lumpy pillows. 

It’s like he’s already forgotten about having an orgasm.

 

 

“Shit. I got to go to Louisville.” Tim shoves his phone back in his pocket and gulps barely warm coffee.  

Raylan, across from Tim in the diner booth looks up from yesterday’s newspaper. They’ve both been doing their own thing. Driving around together all day has exhausted their small talk. 

“Everything okay?”

“I got to help a friend,” Tim says, not wanting to tell anyone anything. Mark’s troubles are his own business, and Tim’s, his other comrades, but that’s it.  That Tim would kind of like to tell Raylan is irrelevant.

Raylan swallows the rest of his coffee in three gulps. “You don’t sound too thrilled about it.”

“I wasn’t planning on driving to Louisville in rush hour traffic.” Mark has crap timing. Not that Tim really has anything better to do.

“Must be a good friend.”

Tim wishes Raylan had an off button. He wishes that a lot.  “We were in Afghanistan together.”

That shuts Raylan up.

 “So let’s go find this asshole.” Raylan reaches for his hat.

Tim digs a couple crumpled dollar bills from his pocket and drops them on the table for the waitress. He tilts the rest of the coffee down his throat and slides out of the booth to take the check up to the cash register. It’s his turn to pay. He shoves the change into his pocket and heads around the counter to the men’s room. He pisses and washes his hands. He is going to get caught in traffic no matter what, he figures, on his way to Louisville, so there’s no reason to hurry through work. Hell, Mark’s not going anywhere.

Tim leaves Mark at the Louisville VA to detox.  He reckons there’s a 70-30 chance Mark will check himself out as soon as he gets his brain together tomorrow. There’s nothing he can do about that, though.  If he does walk out, then Tim will just have to wait until he’s ready again.

Fuck.

He smokes a cigarette leaning against the SUV in the parking lot, staring up into the city haze that passes for night. Maybe he should stay over, head out to the bars. Feel sorry for himself in a motel room with a six pack of Bud and a stranger’s come in his mouth.

That doesn’t seem real attractive right now, though, and Tim tosses the butt aside and gets on the road. The highway back to Lexington is pretty empty, and he makes good time.  A half hour outside of town Tim stops for gas and smokes. Plus there’s a message light blinking on his phone that he doesn’t remember.    

Looks like Raylan called. At least it wasn’t Art. Raylan would never be the one calling him about some Marshal emergency. He’s glad he hasn’t missed anything. Just because he’s not on call doesn’t mean he’s not needed. He’s the only sniper they’ve got, and the best door kicker, too. If he had more to do with his time off, he might resent that, but he’d just as soon be useful.

Tim gasses up the SUV and goes inside to buy a fountain Coke and some Marlboros. He drinks the icy pop in the parking lot, right there in the glow of the convenience store lights, and feels like he’s 15 again.

Nobody here to pick up, though.

Tim watches the road and taps phone buttons from muscle memory. “You rang?”

“Yeah, I heard from Warner’s ex-girlfriend,” Raylan says. “Says he’s visiting his kid tomorrow morning. We should get set up early.”

“Your idea of early or my idea of early?” Tim swirls the mass of ice in the cup. If he could figure out how, he’d chill all the Coke in the world to just above freezing. No point in drinking it any other way.

“Warner ain’t an early riser, by all accounts. The ex says he’s going to come by before the kid goes to day care. That’s about 9.”

“Okay. You want me to pick you up?”

“I think you’re closer. I’ll come by around 7.”

“Whatever.”

“You get things straightened out with your friend?” Raylan sounds uninterested.

Tim is floored he asked at all.  “Yeah. Much as I can.”

“You need me to call Rachel about tomorrow instead?”

Pop starts to go down the wrong pipe, and Tim coughs it out. “No, that’s okay. Listen I’m going to stop for a drink. Want to join me?”

“You still coming back from Louisville? There’s a place not far from me. The Shooting Star.”

“I know it. Give me a half hour.”

 

 

Tim walks into the Shooting Star and sees Raylan right away, at the far end of the bar. Raylan’s hat occupies the stool next to him, though there’s not much of a crowd and no need to be saving a spot.

“Hey.” Tim hands Raylan the hat and gets his ass on the seat. Raylan settles the Stetson on his head.  How many times a day does Raylan do that, Tim wonders, to make it look so natural?

“I got you  bourbon.” Raylan pushes a glass in front of Tim. He raises his glass. “To friends.”

“To friends.” Tim hoists the bourbon into the air and drinks half down.

Raylan doesn’t pry, but he’s got his head tilted to the side, looking at Tim, and Tim is not immune to the full power of Raylan’s attention.

“Mark got hurt bad in Afghanistan. They gave him Oxy.” Tim rubs his forehead.

“And he can’t shake it?”

“He’s trying.”

“I know. I didn’t say he wasn’t.”

“He calls me up for help. I get him to detox. Maybe he stays, gets clean, does some meetings. Then he hurts too much and the other shit doesn’t touch it and he’s gone again.”

“Tough thing to carry,” Raylan says.

“At least he keeps trying.”

“No, I meant, tough for you.”

Tim shrugs. He’s not even doing the heavy lifting. That’s all on Mark. But man, he wishes he could just get it dealt with, draw a line through it and go on to the next crisis. Sometimes, when Mark stops answering his calls again, when he gets thrown out of whatever place he’s managed to find and his neighbors have already forgotten him, Tim wishes they were back in the war.

Tim jumps about a mile when Raylan’s hand grips his shoulder. 

“It’s kind of cute how all you Rangers think you’re some kind of superheroes. You might try to lighten up.” Raylan’s hand is steady on him.

Tim’s tongue catches a drip of bourbon on his lower lip. He needs something clever to say. All he can come up with is: “Shit.”

Raylan tips the glass to his lips. His other hand kneads at Tim’s shoulder, soft finger-pushes against muscle. Sort of how you might pet a cat.

Tim concentrates on his drink. He doesn’t know what to make of this. He’s sure as hell not going to ask, though.

Raylan swirls his bourbon and ice a little, looks into the middle distance. “Come back to the motel with me.”

 The past and future and right now stretch in Tim’s sight, like he’s standing on some high spot. He’s so damn tired of being alone. He swallows down the rest of his drink.  “Okay.”

 

 

As soon as the door closes behind them Raylan takes Tim by the shoulders with firm, purposeful hands  and bends in to kiss him. Tim’s hands land on Raylan’s biceps, and he makes a pleased sound against Raylan’s mouth. With a flick of his tongue Raylan asks to be let in, and Tim obliges.

They share open mouthed, wet, slow kisses and the inch by inch collision of two strong bodies.

Raylan’s hands smooth down Tim’s back, press flat below his ribs, hold him in place. Tim is trapped there, between Raylan’s hands, and his body. He pushes his hips against Raylan, his dick firming up in his jeans. Raylan’s ahead of him, dick fat and hard even under the tight denims he favors.

It occurs to Tim that Raylan’s been thinking about this. Being with him again.  

Tim eases Raylan back with a hand on his chest and frees Raylan’s cock, slipping jeans buttons loose one handed. He reaches for Raylan’s cock.

Raylan steps back. Sails the Stetson onto the table and pulls his shirt off.

Tim goes to his knees and yanks Raylan’s jeans to his knees, and Raylan shoves his shorts down, so Tim has a clear shot at his dick. This is totally in Tim’s wheelhouse. He nuzzles the soft skin of Raylan’s shaft and grazes his lips over the head. The dick against his face bobs and Raylan jerks his hips forward. When he takes the head into his mouth, Raylan makes a soft gasp, and gropes for Tim’s head. Tim suspects he’s got his eyes closed, but he’s got too much to do to look. He pulls off the head and shaft and laps at Raylan’s balls, heavy and hairy, just the way Tim likes them.

Raylan grunts and his hands settle around Tim’s skull instead oef tangled in his hair, like he trusts Tim to take care of him. That’s not something you get from one night stands, not much.  Tim takes Raylan to the root, lets his throat open around the thick cock. He rolls Raylan’s balls in one hand and pops his own buttons to give his hard-on some space. When he swallows around Raylan he gets an open mouthed _ah!_ in response.  He eases back, and laps at the underside of Raylan’s shaft, breathes on the damp skin – and takes him deep again.

Raylan thrusts, shallow, says in a low rasp Tim’s not heard from him before, “Can I?”

In response, Tim tugs him forward the last inch, and Raylan takes his meaning, sliding his cock back over Tim’s tongue and then a firm push into Tim’s throat.  Raylan sets the pace and Tim closes his eyes. He’s got a hand at the base of Raylan’s shaft, sliding up when Raylan pulls back, flicking the nerves under the head. He works his tongue on Raylan’s cock coming and going, swallows around his thrusts, rolls and tugs on his balls.

When Raylan’s cock jerks and his balls tighten, Tim grabs Raylan’s hips and takes him deep. He wants Raylan’s come, and Raylan doesn’t seem to have a problem giving it to him, letting his cock spurt deep into Tim’s throat.

Tim sits back, and Raylan’s cock slips free. Raylan sits down on the bed right behind him like his legs are giving out.  

“Damn.” Raylan blinks at him. Finds a little smile. “I knew you’d be good.”

Tim wipes his hand over his mouth.  “You’re welcome.”

Raylan toes his boots off, and frees himself from his jeans. “Get over here.”

His cock is about to burst, and Tim wastes no time crossing the few feet between them. 

Raylan hitches himself up the bed, ‘til he’s leaning against the pillows. “Jeans off.”

Tim strips off his shirt, and sits on the edge of the bed to untie his boots. He lets his pants fall so he can step out of them. His dick is already out of his shorts, flushed read and reaching for his stomach.

“Up here.” Raylan manhandles him into straddling his body, tugs at the back of his thighs until Tim’s cock is right in his face, and breathes on it.

“Mother. Fucker.” Tim grabs his balls and tugs them down so he doesn’t come right there. He’s hot and ready to go, but not yet. “What’re you waiting for?”

Raylan laughs, and drags him forward until Tim’s cock pushes past his lips. Tim braces a hand on the wall behind Raylan, steadying himself against Raylan sucking him in, mouth making obscene, wet, _greedy_ noises. His mouth seems to be everywhere on his cock at once, and Tim pushes into that sloppy, welcoming heat without thinking, without pausing for permission, as hot for it as he’s been in years, and Raylan lets him do whatever he wants.

Then Tim is coming, and he could not say how long he’s been fucking Raylan’s face and he doesn’t care, because he’s going off like cannonfire and he knows Raylan can take it, knows how tough he is, knows that he loves a hard dick in his mouth.

Tim slumps, his cock finally still, and Raylan steadies him. Damn, he’s thirsty.

Raylan seems to read his mind. He reaches for a bottle on the bedside table and pours a few inches, offers it to Tim.

Warm bourbon isn’t the most thirst quenching liquid Tim can think of, but he’ll take it. He swallows a mouthful, then another, and puts the glass back into Raylan’s hand.

“Better?” Raylan sips at the glass.

“You think?” Tim climbs off Raylan and grabs his jeans from the floor. His dog tags swing away from his chest as he bends over, and then thump lightly back against his skin. He’s so used to their presence he mostly only notices when they’re not there, like if they get caught on something, or sometimes he’s had to take them off to get an x-ray.

Raylan watches him, lazy and loose limbed, sprawled on the bed, looking in the low light like masculinity itself.  

Tim licks his lips. He’s still thirsty. He probably needs a smoke. He wishes Raylan would stop looking at him.

“I got to get going.” Tim finds his shirt and pulls it on, steps into the boots and leans over to tie them.

“Okay. See you tomorrow.”

“7 a.m.” Tim finds his keys. He wants to say something else, but he has no fucking clue. He settles.   
“I’ll save you some coffee.”

“Sounds good.” Raylan’s drowsy, probably wants him out of there.

Tim goes.

Gets in the SUV.  Chugs the warmed dregs of Coke from the gas stop earlier.

A thought strikes him, and Tim snickers as he pulls out of the potholed parking lot: he’s never fooled around in a bed before.

Maybe it’ll happen again. Maybe it won’t. Maybe they’ll get caught.

The future has all these threads and he doesn’t know which on he’ll be tugging on.

A smile tilts his mouth. He turns the radio up: Springsteen, “Born to Run.”

Tim puts the truck into gear. He hasn’t had something to look forward to in a long time.

He feels like a teenager again.

 


End file.
